


Dry Fire

by stiction



Series: Summer Heat 2020 [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Friends With Benefits, Gun Kink, M/M, a valiant attempt at making a dangerous scenario safe and sane, rung is not whirl's doctor in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24938689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiction/pseuds/stiction
Summary: “This’d probably fit inside me,” Whirl mused.Rung stopped. “What?”“Your blaster,” Whirl said. “The actual blaster, not your spike. We already know that fits.”“I’m not going to—Whirl, that’s dangerous.”Whirl shrugged. “Brainstorm does it.”
Relationships: Rung/Whirl (Transformers)
Series: Summer Heat 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803259
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Dry Fire

**Author's Note:**

> written for the square "gun kink", put in by @whirlybird226 on Twitter!
> 
> come check out my board and put in bingo prompts [@schemingallday](https://twitter.com/schemingallday/status/1275841531245715457?s=20) on twitter!

“Well, well, well…”

Rung paused. “Yes, Whirl?”

“Who knew the doc could shoot?”

“Nobody, likely. I don’t make a habit of it.” The blaster on his desk was in pieces, laid out in a map. He traced the setup once through, making sure everything was still in place before he went back to cleaning the heat coil in his hands. Maintenance oil had such a distinct smell. He dabbed a scrap of mesh into the oil and carefully ran it along each curve of metal. “I’ve managed to get this far without having to kill anyone in that manner. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Fair enough,” Whirl said. He loomed closer, until his helm hovered over Rung’s shoulder. “Guess you would like it better up close and personal, huh?”

“In all honesty, I’d rather not have to kill anyone at all.” Rung held the coil up and looked down the center. There was a dry spot on an inner loop. “Sometimes that’s just too much to ask for.”

“Can’t relate! I probably blew out like six Con sparks earlier. It was a productive day.”

“Whirl,” Rung sighed. 

Whirl tapped his shoulder with the flat of a claw. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be respectful and introspective and all that slag later. Right now I’m a little busy thinking about that sweet trick shot you pulled off. Nailing the winch hook of a moving copter?” He played a smacking sound clip that Rung had learned was of a human kissing. “Beautiful.”

When the hum of Whirl’s field finally registered, Rung nearly dropped the coil. Ah. Okay, then. He rolled the warming metal between his palms. 

“Was there something you wanted?” Rung asked, unsurprised by the drop in his vocalizer’s register. 

Whirl didn’t seem taken aback either—he set his arms on Rung’s shoulders and leaned in further. The barrels on his chassis dug into Rung’s plating, hot and primed. There must’ve been some residual charge in his on-board weaponry.

“I dunno,” Whirl said. “You tell me.”

It was like this. Whirl showed up, said something off-color, and suddenly whatever Rung was doing was unimportant, compared to the flexing contrast of Whirl’s field, his body language intimate and couched in unsubtle aggression. And Rung would set his task aside, too taken with such direct interest to ignore it. 

Rung had asked only once: why?  _ Why this _ , he had tried to say, gesturing between the two of them on the floor of a remote corner of the ship, knowing even as he did it that the real question had been  _ why him? _

While Whirl didn’t have a face in the conventional sense, it was rare that Rung struggled to read him. In that moment he had been inscrutable. And then he had taken Rung’s helm in between two claw points and shaken it, far from gently but by no means intending harm. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ask stupid questions, and  _ don’t  _ do your therapy mumbo-jumbo on me.” 

And after that Whirl had somehow managed to fold his legs up tight enough to grind on one of Rung’s thighs until he overloaded, one set of pincers still on Rung’s face and the other making sure Rung’s hand kept his hips pressed down. Like Rung was strong enough to hold Whirl anywhere. 

It was true enough that Rung wasn’t stupid. At the very least, he didn’t consider himself stupid, and Whirl clearly didn’t, either. There was an appeal in submitting to someone who was incapable of forcing you to do so. It was an experience that he personally found rare, considering the company he kept of late had largely survived the war by virtue of heavy framing and combat training. 

“Maybe I just wanna show you some appreciation,” Whirl said then. It spoke to the effectiveness of situational conditioning that the clumsy grasp of Whirl’s claws around Rung’s shoulders had his interface protocols pinging. Whirl tightened his grip a bit, like he knew that Rung was already folding. Past performance  _ did _ indicate a likely future result. “A mech like me knows fancy shooting.”

Still. “Maybe a mech like me wants to forget he knows how to shoot a gun.” 

“Maybe…” Whirl trailed off, claw tip tapping unsubtly on the edge of Rung’s spark window. “Ah, slag it. You gonna take me up on this or not?”

Rung frowned. 

A klik later, Whirl was wedging himself onto Rung’s lap, optic trained on the disassembled blaster on the desk. 

“This thing’s pretty slick,” he said. He snagged the charge cartridge in one claw and lifted it to the light. “So you’ve never really taken anyone out with it?”

“No. Never.” 

Rung always felt vaguely cramped by Whirl’s size. It was never more apparent than when Whirl was on top of him. Those long legs could fold down to a fairly unobtrusive size but the mass obviously never lessened. The weight of Whirl on his lap could’ve crimped fuel lines or dented plating without care, and yet, Rung rarely escaped these trysts with any more grievous marks than he would accrue in a more size-compatible interface. 

“Pity,” Whirl said, and played a sigh. “Think you’d look real good with a little kickback on your hands. All that sparkly residue. You rinse off after the ruckus today?”

Of course he had. It was an older model of blaster. Even firing once at an inanimate object had left Rung feeling sticky around the knuckles. Not to mention the condensation on his frame from the exertion of fighting with his staff. 

“I did,” he admitted. 

“Pity,” Whirl said again, not that it seemed like much of a mood-killer, what with the unsubtle rock of Whirl’s panel against his own. “I’m still fresh off the transport. Had to wait a bit before Magnus stopped trying to chew me out for ‘ _ inappropriate use of force _ ’.”

“What did you do?” Rung asked. He laid his hands on Whirl’s hips and slid them up, thumbing the thick seal of a reinforced cockpit before he smoothed his palms over the glass. After these quartices on board, he had learned that Whirl preferred heavy, grounding touch after an eventful day.

Whirl’s frame hummed as he leaned into the touch and nudged his hips back into Rung’s lap. “Nothing I don’t normally do.”

“Hardly an answer,” Rung sighed. “Have you considered taking a less aggressive approach in the field?”

“Less aggressive? Sounds a lot like bargain-bin cowardice to me.” 

“Maybe you should, ah—” A little fritz of charge blipped through Rung’s vocalizer when Whirl opened his panel. “Maybe you should examine that prejudice.”

“Hey, hey, hey—ix-nay on the ychotherapy-psay!” Whirl looked over his shoulder through the narrow gap between his rotors. “I can feel it when you start trying to pick my processor. Save it for the real loonies.” 

“Whirl,” Rung chastised, and stopped as Whirl ground back a bit harder. His own panel slid back only a moment later, responsive as ever to the complicated, forceful thing that was Whirl’s approach to seduction. “Please be respectful of your crewmates.”

“I  _ told _ you,” Whirl said. “Introspection comes  _ later. _ Right now you oughta fuck me into your desk before I fall asleep.”

It took a bit of doing to trim the coding that urged Rung to stop and reassess and make sure Whirl was well-fueled and defragged, but he had had plenty of practice with doing so. Whirl was correct in his assertion that Rung wasn’t his doctor. If he was going to preach about respect, the least he could do was avoid that hard boundary himself. 

So Rung dropped one hand to Whirl’s open panel, skirting his pressurizing spike and thumbing his anterior node. Whirl stiffened and then relaxed into the touch with a quiet noise. 

“You like my blaster?” Rung asked. 

“This blaster? Or are you talking about your spike?”

Rung leaned his helm against Whirl’s back and laughed. 

“The answer’s yes either way,” Whirl continued. “Both are pretty nice.”

“Pretty nice,” Rung said. Speaking of his spike, it had already pressurized by virtue of being close to Whirl’s open panels and the odd, familiar roll of his field. “Sounds like I need to be putting more work in, if  _ nice _ is the best you have to say about my performance.”

“Nice is nothing to…” Whirl trailed off as Rung guided him up and back with one hand and shifted his spike against Whirl’s anterior node with the other. “Nothing to sneeze at,” he continued gamely. He was still holding the blaster’s cartridge, though his grip had slackened enough that the plasteel round was dangling precariously in his claw. 

“Right.”

Rung nudged Whirl forward a bit and managed to stand without falling over, which was a victory in his ledger. As he pushed his chair to the side with one foot, Whirl laid his elbows on the desk. They worked well like this, Rung thought idly, watching the subtle twitch of Whirl’s valve. 

“This’d probably fit inside me,” Whirl mused. 

Rung stopped. “What?”

“Your blaster,” Whirl said. “The actual blaster, not your spike. We already know that fits.”

“I’m not going to—Whirl, that’s  _ dangerous _ .”

Whirl shrugged a rotor blade. “Brainstorm does it.”

“I’m not Brainstorm,” Rung said, feeling a little odd. A little cross. Jealousy? He nudged the feeling aside, marked for later analysis and tugged at Whirl’s hips until his spike slid into Whirl’s valve.

“Fuck yeah you’re not,” Whirl said. Rung was certain that he’d lost track of the conversation. “C’mon, doc.”

A valve was an easy thing to damage, Rung thought. It was a bad idea, but the flex of Whirl’s calipers insisted otherwise. He knew that Whirl was still picking at the components of his blaster from the quiet ticks of metal on plasteel and the interested hum of Whirl’s vocalizer, distinct from the static noises he normally made during interface. 

There were ways to accommodate. 

Someone, somewhere, had likely made a frame-friendly stimulation aid shaped like a gun. Maybe even one that gathered charge like a blaster—with an energy reservoir in the cartridge that could dispel when the trigger was pulled. Machines like that existed, Rung knew. Machines that could siphon charge away from frame components during surgery and redirect it. 

He could imagine the crackle of anticipation in Whirl’s field, only exacerbated by drawn-out teasing, the snap of it over his own plating as he pushed his fingers into Whirl’s valve and kept him waiting for the smooth barrel. 

Rung put a hand between Whirl’s rotors and urged his cockpit down onto the desk. The barrels on his chassis clicked against metal. Like this Rung could see Whirl’s helm tilt as he examined all the moving parts that went into the blaster. Whirl had probably disassembled and reassembled hundreds of guns just like it. 

Could a replica be taken apart like this? If Rung could find a reputable source, possibly. There were plenty of weapons enthusiasts around. He was hip-deep in one right now. 

He imagined it again, idly but with growing interest. Firing at someone felt reprehensible, but that release of charge from a ready sidearm could be thrilling. Cathartic. And to do this for Whirl, to bring something that was clearly desired into play in a safe fashion… 

Whirl’s back arched a little, knee joints flexing as he pushed back, spurring Rung into action again. His hand found purchase at the rotor hub in the center of Whirl’s back and gripped it tightly, bending his back further. Whirl did enjoy a slight, specific discomfort. It was evident in the ripple of tension through his frame, the flex of his field and his valve in tandem. He might be twitchy and inclined to fidget if Rung held him down and talked him through it, but he might still go quiet and still the way he sometimes did, seemingly at random.

Rung’s glasses slid down his nose and distorted his view. His spike sank into Whirl in double vision, too slight a malfunction for his processor to remedy when it was already so taxed. 

Would it ruin the experience for Whirl if he knew the gun was fake? 

Probably. A little bit, at least. Rung would tell him anyway, if the idea came to fruition. 

Whirl jerked and twisted, knocking half of the pieces onto the floor. They scattered under Rung's furniture without the smallest apology, but he couldn't bring himself to be annoyed just yet.

Perhaps... Perhaps Rung would tell him after they had finished with it.


End file.
